


Twist & Shout

by sadbarrett



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, John Lennon being a cutie as always, Paul and Ringo are there too, and George but he leaves, and that’s literally the whole story, so John makes out with this girl oop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 11:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14401698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadbarrett/pseuds/sadbarrett
Summary: John Lennon falls for Peppermint Lounge twister Antoinette Fontaine during The Beatles' visit to New York.





	Twist & Shout

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little short story for my first Ao3 upload! Based on the story of Geri Miller and Ringo Starr, with my own twist.

Backstage, I sit around in front of the mirrors and chat with some of my girlfriends. I don’t have a shift until later, so whilst some girls primp and prep for their performances, I recline in my chair in casual clothes and unbrushed hair. In the Peppermint Lounge dressing room, it’s always noisy and chaotic; we’re a world-famous twist club in the capital of the United States, and I’m one of the twisters. I have been for about a year now. Dancing is something I’ve always had a passion for, so why not make some money out of it? Being a twister isn’t a career choice, for I long to be an actress, but for now it’ll do to pay rent.

Suddenly, my friend Geri bursts into the dressing room, announcing “The Beatles are coming to the Lounge to catch our show!”

I’m shocked and overjoyed, and I watch as every girl in the room’s face lights up. It’s almost too good to be true. The Beatles are the hottest band in the world right now – they’re marvellous, and all gorgeous too. Everything about them is cute; their personalities, their looks, their moptops, their Liverpool accents, their suits. I am a complete and utter Beatlemaniac, as is every other girl in the room. As is every other girl in the whole entire USA, to be honest. I can almost taste the excitement, and my soul leaps for joy.

Now there really is chaos. It’s complete mayhem. The volume is too loud to hear myself think, and everywhere is a blurred flurry of action, girls excitedly preening and titivating and changing into their best outfits. The air is charged with excitement, but my heart drops as I realise I won’t have time to change into my costume nor get ready. Oh, the heck with it, it’s not as though I’ll stand out from the other girls anyway.

“Aren’t you gonna change into your costume, Antoinette?” asks Geri, fervently running a brush through her long black locks.

“There’s no point,” I sigh with a melancholy smile. “I have no chance of actually standing out from all of these beautiful girls.”

“Don’t say that!” Geri says, horrified. “At least give your lovely blonde hair a brush! It looks so flowy and gorgeous when you do.”

“Why?” I ask. “It’s not as though I’ll be noticed by them.”

“You might be,” she says, her honey eyes sparkling as she attempts to glide her comb through my hair and I bat her away. 

Before I even know it, it’s 12:30 and we’re being rushed on stage. A couple of girls are still frantically teasing their hair, adjusting their makeup, or making their miniskirts even shorter. Even though I’m not dancing this next performance, I decide I’ll still go out and have a look at the Beatles. 

I make my way from the dressing room and out into the main part of the club. It is already pretty full, with most of the seats occupied. I wave to some of the friendly regulars who sit at the bar before taking a seat in the wings with some of the other girls who aren’t scheduled to perform yet. The wings are dark, so the audience can’t see us, but we can see them. As we wait for the girls to start the show, I scan the crowd; people mill about, laughing and talking at the bar, conversing at their tables, and I peruse the sea of faces in the hopes of spotting the Beatles. 

Sure enough, the boys sit ringside, sipping their favourite drink – a most unappetising-sounding conglomeration of Scotch and Coke. The band starts knocking out a wild rock n’ roll tune, and the Beatles turn their attention to the stage. I’ve seen pictures of them before, but in real life they look even better. I graze my gaze across them, coming to a stop at guitarist George Harrison. My heart flips and I set my mind on him. He looks exquisite, with a face like Adonis and sublime dark eyes. He’s all angles and cheekbones and jawline, and I decide I must try to at least say hello to him.

The show is finally finished and all of us, some still in costume, are taken over to their table to be introduced. Even though I know with dismay that I won’t get the chance to talk to them, my heart still skips with elation. I can’t believe I’m going to meet my favourite band. “Where’s George?” I ask Geri, who is flattered to find Ringo Starr eyeing her up. I’m determined to find him – nothing will happen, but what if it did? I know I’m being stupid, but I can’t help but get my hopes up.

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” she frowns. “He had to go back to the hotel, because he’s got a sore throat.”

“Oh,” I say, my voice full of disappointment. I guess I’ll never meet George. Oh, but he was so lovely and gorgeous.

“I’m sorry, Toni,” Geri replies sympathetically, before smiling bashfully at Ringo, who stares at her completely _un_ abashedly.

“It’s fine. He must be a dead-head. I probably wouldn’t have liked him that much anyway.” I’m not sure who I’m reassuring; Geri or myself. Probably myself, I conclude, for Geri isn’t listening. Oh, well, I don’t blame her – who would listen when a Beatle was flirting with them?

“Antoinette?” I turn to see one of the girls not in costume, Queenie, tap my shoulder. “I’m gonna go back to the dressing room and change into costume. D’you wanna come?”

“Sure,” I say. I’m already wearing makeup, and it won’t take me long to brush my hair or get changed. Queenie grabs my hand and we duck through the clubbers dancing ferociously. I look back at the Beatles, noticing Geri dancing with Ringo. I’m happy for her, but I feel a pang of jealousy, and wish I was as pretty as her. 

"They’re so beautiful, aren’t they?” Queenie asks, as we change. The dressing room is so quiet with just the two of us.

“I know,” I laugh, hoisting up my Go-go dress and slipping on some heels. “It’s unreal. Which of the boys do you like best?”

“I think John is a real catch,” she replies, applying bright red lipstick. “I really dig him. I’m gonna try and get a date with him.”

“Best of luck,” I tell her. “I’m not even going to try. I really fancy George, but he’s gone home.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could seduce Ringo! I’m not sure about Paul, though. He seems a little…out of your league.”

I raise an arched brow, saying nothing. I’m not sure if she’s joking or not, but she doesn’t laugh and neither do I. _Well, if we’re going to play dirty, that’s fine by me_. Perhaps I’ll try my luck with John Lennon, just to spite her. He’s very captivating too, anyway. 

I don’t bother to wait for Queenie – after thoroughly grooming my satin-blonde hair, I leave the dressing room and come back to dozens of girls swarming about the place. I figure I’ll never stand a chance with all the competition, and among them I’ll just fade into the background. I’m working out how to get John’s attention when somebody grabs me from behind and yanks me up onto the stage.

“What the-“ it’s Geri, and a couple of my other friends.

“Oh, do dance with us, Toni!” Geri says.

“What happened to Ringo?” I ask her.

“I’m going to dance and hope he’s watching,” she tells me, exuding confidence. I realise that actually this is a very good idea, and maybe if I catch John’s eye he’ll watch me dance too. No other way better to steal his attention. 

Suddenly the band begins to play a real wild Monkey, and Geri and I dance like we’ve never danced before. The music is like liquid adrenaline pumped into my bloodstream, making me tingle as I twist and jive. I flow in dance like the music is oxygen, and to breathe I need to twirl and flitter and swing and cavort. I whirl like a hurricane of ecstasy, grinning gregariously as the world whips past me in a blur. 

As I spin, I catch John’s gaze flicker over to me, with avid eyes attesting to his quick wit beneath heavy brows. I continue to revel zealously, delighted that I have his attention. Every time I turn in his direction, he’s watching me intently.

As the song draws to a close, I see that John is still anchoring his chocolate gaze on me. Now I dare to make eye contact, and he realises I know he was watching me. His lips are tugged up into a slight cheeky smile and the world blurs into the background. In the midst of all the noise and the crowds and the dancers and the drinkers and the band playing a different tune, he raises a slender, dexterous hand and beckons me towards him, winking wolfishly. Up go his bushy brows as I jump down from the stage and cross the room to reach him, dodging dancers oscillating wildly.

“Sit down, love,” he says, his Liverpool accent stirring butterflies in my chest. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous than George, possessing a strange ethereal beauty.

I glance around, my brow furrowed. He and I both know there are no chairs vacant at his table. Then it clicks, and gracefully I swing myself onto his lap, blushing profusely. He blinks at me, his toffee eyes half obscured by his long, dusky lashes. I feel like I could get lost in those lovely copper eyes, sharp with intelligence yet as mellow as a sunset sky. Flirting with John is no longer about Queenie; I realise her comment was a blessing in disguise, and that maybe John is my Beatle of choice after all. He’s more stunning than any other boy I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe that he noticed me; me, of all people, to be noticed – and him of all people to notice me.

“What’s yer name?” he asks.

“Antoinette,” I reply, immediately at ease in his presence. “But most people call me Toni.”

“Antoinette, hmm? That is a pretty name.” Immediately, there’s no beating around the bush. I think he’s gorgeous and he thinks I’m pretty and so we make no secret of it. Sitting on his lap, I notice how lovely his hair is. It’s soft mahogany, and glossy with a chestnut undertone, hints of red woven into the brown. It’s mostly a shock of rosewood, nutmeg brown, but I glimpse the russet strands coruscate as they catch the light. 

“Do ye want a drink, Toni?” he asks cordially.

“I don’t drink,” I laugh. “Not even Scotch and Coke.”

John feigns a gasp. “Well, okay, then. D’ye wanna light?”

“I don’t smoke, either,” I say, my cheeks colouring.

“Well, what do you do?” I notice that he smells wonderfully fragrant. I feel as though just sitting on his lap is enough to make my heart burst. To be fair, it’s all my tremulous heart requires.

“Nothing,” I smile. “I guess I’m a drip.”

John smiles heart-throbbingly back at me, his voice husky and genuine. “Oh, Antoinette – the way you dance, ye can’t be a drip!”

“I’m surprised you even noticed me, to be honest,” I tell him. I still can hardly believe this is happening.

“How could I not notice you? Yer the damn prettiest girl in this entire joint.” 

We talk aimlessly about rock and roll and the dances that are popular here. After a while, the band strikes up a dizzyingly wild tune, and I yearn to leap up and dance. My foot is already beginning to tap, itching to go.

"Do you dance?" I ask John.

"Only on Tuesdays," he teases, grinning.

"So, you won't dance with me?" I pout.

He looks out at the floor, where people jive and twist like their lives depend on it, and then swings his restless gaze back to me. "I..."

"I bet you'd look good on the dancefloor," I smirk, standing up off his lap and offering him my hand, eyeing him imploringly. He hesitates, unsure, before giving into himself and taking my hand. 

I keep hold of his hand and lead him onto the dancefloor where other couples are already twisting away to the music. John beams at me as our heels click across the floor, his hand warm and gentle on the small of my back. His eyes are drunk on fire and his lips kiss the threshold of liberty as he dances his inhibitions away.

"You dance like a spinning top," John says, whirling past me at arm’s length.

"That's because I've got a crazy partner," I tease back as he pulls me toward him, grasping my waist firmly but gently and eliciting a gasp.

"I oughta see them reel and rock?" he asks, his cocoa eyes gleaming and a crooked grin playing across his lips. 

Threatening to brush his lips against mine, he pushes me away as though I’m too terrible, yet too wonderful to be near. “You know, you twist so fine,” John winks. Then he reels me back in, unable to give me up. “Come on and twist a little closer, and let me know that you’re mine.” I fall into him, his strong arms wrapping me tight, protecting me before casting me out again. Dancing with him is bliss.

However, John’s manager starts motioning for him to go.   
“What’re ye doing later, Antionette? Can I see you?” he asks, giddy and breathless.

“Of course,” I say. “The only thing is, I don’t get off work till four, and it’s only half two now.”

“I don’t wanna stay here,” he says. “I’d wait for you, but the place is crawling with paparazzi. But I don’t wanna go back to the hotel with the others, either.” 

“You can stay at my apartment,” I suggest. “I live right around the corner from here. I’ve a hi-fi, and dozens of albums to keep you entertained.”

“If you don’t mind,” he says. I smile and hand him my keys, giving him directions.

There’s only one more show to do, but it feels like an eternity until I can leave. Normally when I dance, my mind is clear and relaxed. But now, twisting in front of another audience, I can’t focus. My mind wanders to John, to the image of him whirling past me as we dance, beaming from under his mop of glossy auburn hair. I find myself smiling as I picture him, and realise that he makes me overjoyed, even in only four hours of knowing him. 

Finally, I am free to leave. But as I walk home, I’m struck with terror – I didn’t tell John my apartment number. Here’s where I lose a date with him, and my keys! I speed up as I walk, my feet moving faster as I panic. I virtually race to the door, and when I get there I hear a record playing and relief hits me like a tidal wave. I knock on the door and a blazer-less John answers it. I fall into my apartment, shutting the door and collapsing across my loveseat, my legs sprawled across the arm. “I basically ran here,” I laugh. “I forgot to tell you my apartment number, and then realised suddenly as I was walking home.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” he says, very British and very polite. “I met your neighbour in the lobby, and she told me which number your apartment was.” 

I picture my neighbour wondering why the one and only John Lennon was asking for little old Antoinette Fontaine’s apartment, and laugh. “Do you want breakfast, John?”

“I’d murder some toast, if you have any,” he says. So, I make him breakfast and we talk and talk and talk.

“What made you ask me out?” I ask him.

“As soon as I saw you I thought you were stunning, and I had to talk to you. And you seem so lovely and down to earth, and interesting and independent and just fun. There was no way I couldn’t see you again.”

“Thank you,” I blush. I- “

He cuts me off, leaning forward to kiss me.  
His lips brush across mine, gentle but yearning for more. I relax into him, my body melting at his touch: he places a supple hand on the small of my back, pulling me toward him. Easing out of surprise and into bliss, I hook my arms around his neck and bury a hand in his soft feathery hair. His velvet lips explore mine slowly but urgently, softly but thoroughly. I lose myself in the kiss, I can’t think straight, I’m giving up to my desire. My nerves are on fire, my skin tingling and burning with every passing second. Subconsciously my lips part and his tongue gently delves inside of my mouth like a butterfly. My mind is overcome with euphoria and desire, and I arch up into him, my heart thumping against his broad chest. His arms encircle me, and he continues to passionately kiss me. Drunk on endorphins, I savour the taste of John, the touch of his tongue against mine.

We’re forced to break apart, gasping for air and breathless with giddy delight. Every inch of me is saturated with love and aching need for John’s touch. He inflicts sensations I didn’t know I’m capable of feeling, forging senses of exoticism and roguery. 

“And because I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you twisting like some sort of goddess,” he whispers, his cool breath stirring some of the flyaway golden hairs at the base of my neck and raising goose bumps where it caresses my velveteen skin. I can barely speak, my chest heaving against his as I fight for breath. 

"How do you do what you do to me?” I manage.

“I wish I knew,” he replies huskily, his amber eyes glowing. “If I knew how you do it to me, I’d do it to you.” 

Checking the time, I see that it’s close to 7 a.m. His bright eyes belie how tired he is; I can tell just by looking at him, and I know that he has important press conferences in the morning. “Antoinette, I have to go,” he says mournfully. “I need to get some sleep.”

“I know,” I reply, trying not to sound dejected.

“Cheer up, sweetheart,” he says, his thumb caressing my cheek as he gazes into my eyes. “I’ll see you again, you know, before we leave for Miami. I promise you.” 

With a sigh, I walk him to the door as we wait for the elevator. Before stepping in, John leans down and plants several small kisses along my jaw, teasing at the corner of my mouth. “Goodnight, love.”

***

A couple of hours later, I’m sharply awoken by knocking at my apartment door. I squeeze my eyes shut, begging to go back to sleep. After last night’s events, I’m surprised I even managed to get to sleep. It was all so surreally perfect – but all good things must come to an end. John was gone, and it was just me again, lying here alone in my apartment. Oh, how I long to feel his arms around me again-

I’m brutally snapped out of my reverie as my interrupter persists. With a groan, I open my eyes and drag myself out of bed, trudging to the door. I open it before my eyes even have a chance to focus. 

When they do eventually focus, I feel about ready to faint. It’s too good to be true. On my doorstep stands John, his unbrushed auburn hair standing up on his head like duck fluff, and an exhausted but wide smile across his face.

“John?” I gasp, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

“Toni,” he says, as I fall into his warm embrace.

“What are you doing here? You’re meant to be on the way to Miami!”

“I overslept,” he explains, slapping a hand to his forehead. “The others thought it’d be real funny if they didn’t wake me up, and now they’re all on the plane halfway across the states and I’m stuck here with no hotel and nowhere to go!”

“Oh, Johnny,” I laugh fondly. “Well, you might as well stay here, I guess,” I offer shyly. "You know. Until they come and get you."

“I'd love to. Thank you so much, Antoinette. You’re too kind.”

“It’s a pleasure,” I return warmly, holding the door open for him.

“The pleasure, the privilege is mine,” he grins.


End file.
